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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23904151">About writing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazanma/pseuds/Kazanma'>Kazanma</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>No Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Essays, Other, Writing, venting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:48:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>700</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23904151</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazanma/pseuds/Kazanma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A small essay about writing.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>About writing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to Betts for giving me the idea of writing about writing, her tips are amazing, guys. Everything she makes is something to read, so if you find her AO3, please give her works a chance.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sometimes, writing makes sense. Like I'm thinking about a deep subject, but then I remember that I'm not that deep, and I censor myself. Writing is also a process of censorship to me, at some points. It stops being fun, but then I remember that I'm not that popular, and I stop. </p><p>There aren't any stakes for me. In a world where everything's supposed to make money, the simple thought of profiting of what I do is dizzying. Like watching a movie where none of the characters onscreen are focused enough thanks to the camera.</p><p>I put down some words on the page. Whether they make sense or not, I don't know. It's only a matter of time before they do, at any rate. I'm word vomiting. A constant, steady stream of consciousness that makes sense to me when I'm in the heat of writing you know that sense where everything sounds cool and it's awesome because you were the one creating it and you just want to put it in a frame and make it your best personal achievement since no one else is watching.</p><p>I wonder if that's what took away my love for drawing. That I'm trying to make a career out of it. Design is what I love to do. Do I make sense, still? Are my words reaching out to someone? I hope so. </p><p>Anyways, I'm missing the mark here. Writing feels hard some days, like I can't breathe and just putting words down on a screen makes me sick to the core but I want to put them down because the thought of dying with these words inside is enough to encourage me to speak and express myself. Unless I were to make them pretty, I wouldn't think twice to show this to somebody. My ideas are half-baked, like my cooking, unfinished. There's a bit of beauty in that. Like a painting where all of your mistakes become the best parts.</p><p>Jagged lines in the middle of a perfect drawing show the same feeling than a true artistic masterpiece. Where the artist stumbles, I get to see how much love do they put inside of their pieces.</p><p>I'm drowning alone, in a sea of expectations and the words of my parents. Do they want me to be perfect? I know I can't. They may be well-intentioned, but the road to hell is filled and paved with good intentions. I know they think I'm capable of more. But drawing and writing, in this imperfect way that I'm doing it, that I'm living it, is fine for me.</p><p>Did I say something too personal?</p><p>Maybe. </p><p>But, as far as I know, my prose is tired, my verses turn into scraps of paper where I put words in lines</p><p>and break it down like this</p><p>in order to give everything  r o o m  to breathe.</p><p>I know this sounds pretentious, or maybe I'm just being too self-conscious to enjoy anything when people are watching me. When all you have, at every point of the day, is the always, constantly watchful (and uncomfortably negligent) eye of your mother on top, you constantly censor yourself.</p><p>Just like I'm doing whenever I write. Even as I write like this, I'm always deleting something, like it's mistake. Writing needs an intention, but most of my words fulfill that purpose, when I wield them.</p><p>Every little thing becomes necessary for me. And yet, I always feel like I should add more. As if my stories were hungry babies that I have to feed at all times. When they do, they become fatter, but happier than before.</p><p>Is this constant state of imperfection what writing is supposed to be?</p><p>Maybe.</p><p>I don't know much about writing, but that could be my own self-deprecation speaking (or rather, writing) instead of me. What I know is that writing feels hard.</p><p>Words that are one behind of the other. It's that simple, right? Yet, the right combination is such a hard topic, because people will, and they have fought, fight over the correct words to use, and how to use them.</p><p>I repeat myself so people can listen to me. It's for effect, I swear.</p>
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